Chapter 4: Theft of Aircraft
The next morning, news of the Pakistani military camp's destruction exploded across the nation like wildfire. Radios crackled with breathless reports, newspapers ran banner headlines, and whispers on the street dissolved into fearful murmurs. Over three hundred soldiers confirmed dead—entire barracks turned to ash overnight. The shock was national.
Pakistan erupted in outrage. Their leaders publicly accused the Indian government and R&AW of orchestrating the attack. Official speeches were full of fury, threats, and promises of retaliation. In response, India, under the iron will of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, stood firm.
Not only did India deny the accusations as baseless, but under her decisive leadership, Indian forces were reinforced along the sensitive borders.
Pakistani commanders, after much fanfare, deployed battalions to "stand alert." But within days, they retreated gradually—caught in a storm of doubt, lack of evidence, and the bitter truth: they couldn't afford an open war they couldn't win.
But the architect of that chaos—Vikram—watched it all with quiet indifference.
From a simple room in a village near Sargodha, he observed the political theatre play out through radio newscasts, market gossip, and intelligence reports from R&AW's relay points. None of it surprised him. He knew Pakistan wouldn't dare. Not now.
### New Identity
That room, once belonging to Rashid Khan, a reclusive ex-army driver, was now Vikram's temporary domain. The real Rashid Khan had been quietly eliminated.
> [Body Sold: +10 G.P]
Vikram had taken the identity with calm precision, leaving no trace. The face, the speech, the accent—all perfect. Labels sewn into shirts, hidden ration cards, even the dog-eared photo album in the trunk next to the bed—it all reinforced the illusion.
These minor roles offered major opportunities.
### Exploring the System Store
One evening, curious again about the potential of his accumulating wealth, Vikram leaned back on the charpai and asked aloud:
> "System, what is the use of G.P?"
The familiar, precise voice of the system echoed in his consciousness.
> "Host, you can exchange G.P for a variety of items categorized under provisions, tools, weapons, medicine, and advanced technology."
> "Show me the list," Vikram replied, narrowing his eyes.
The mental interface unfurled, revealing a digital menu:
Food & Basic Supplies
- 10 Kg Potatoes – 1 G.P
- 10 Kg Mangoes – 1 G.P
- 10 Kg Apples – 1 G.P
Toxins & Antidotes
- Low-Grade Poison – 10 G.P
- Medium-Grade Poison – 20 G.P
- High-Grade Poison – 40 G.P
- Universal Antidote – 10 G.P
Conventional Weaponry
- Sniper Rifle (10 km range) – 1,000 G.P
- Sniper Rifle (100 km range) – 10,000 G.P
Advanced Tech
- Quantum Computer – 100,000 G.P
- Artificial Intelligence System – 1,000,000 G.P
Vikram exhaled slowly. The scale stunned him. From fruit to firearms, from field-grade toxins to game-changing machines—the possibilities were staggering.
But with only 2,100 G.P in hand, his options were limited. Just enough for a low-tier weapon or some poison—not enough for strategic tools.
He leaned forward.
> "System... how can I earn more G.P, other than selling human bodies?"
The system responded instantly.
> "You may sell:
– Any physical object including garbage, technology, military equipment, firearms, food supplies, vehicles, medical products, minerals, and aircraft."
A chill, then a thrill ran down Vikram's spine.
> Aircraft.
Any object. Any scale.
His gaze shifted to the iron-rimmed window, toward the distant curve of the sky.
He now knew what his next mission would be.
### 15 August, 1970
A week passed since Vikram's last strike. He had successfully delivered all collected intelligence to R&AW through covert channels: maps of Pakistani military installations, details of terrorist camp networks, coded communications, and base schematics.
But Pakistan's internal chaos ran deeper than expected. The aftermath lingered like smoke. Vigilance on borders had increased—though so had confusion.
In the silence of this week, Vikram did not rest. Instead, he honed his edge.
- Spy Skill → Level 4
- Stealth → Level 4: He could now observe from 500 meters, perceiving heat, motion, and sound. At night, he disappeared into shadows. Within two meters, even trained guards wouldn't know he was breathing behind them.
- Combat → Level 4: He could now handle 50 cold-weapon opponents at once. Stronger strikes, faster reflexes, perfect stance.
But next came the most ambitious step yet.
### Picking the Target
The real nerve of Pakistan's military strength wasn't just its infantry—it was in the air. Its Air Force was the backbone that intimidated regional enemies.
Vikram began picking at the thread carefully.
He started with fragmented intel: a soldier's fear, a pilot's idle complaint at a tea stall, the scattered contents of an outdated railway ledger listing defense supply routes. Through subtle handshakes and deep gazes, he extracted mental flashes from clerks and base assistants—glimpses of PAF Base Sargodha.
Known today as Mushaf Air Base, even back then it was Pakistan's aerial jewel. Located near the Kirana Hills, it housed elite jets, advanced radars, and elite squadrons—the "eagles" of the nation's air power.
Each dusk, Vikram crept toward the city limits, using abandoned roofs and irrigation bridges to observe flight paths, logistics routes, convoy behavior. By day, he posed as a clerk studying maps in dusty municipal record rooms.
By the end of the sixth day, his mental blueprints were crystalline. Patrol timing. Warehouse angles. Fuel truck placements. Window alignment.
The location of the two hangars.
The score was within reach. Now it was time to steal the match.
### Infiltration
Midnight.
Dressed like a traveling produce seller, Vikram left his guesthouse under a cloudy sky. He moved casually alongside fruit vendors returning home and late-night freight carriers cycling along canals.
As the outskirts thinned, Vikram became pure intent.
He followed the Jhal Chakian Canal, moving through irrigation ditches and patchy eucalyptus groves. His [Spy Skill] fed him real-time mental snapshots of guards yawning, shifting rifles, or nodding at dogs.
He circled far west of the base—where he'd overheard a group of mechanics griping about "lazy contractors" leaving the fencing unrepaired for a week.
There it was: a rusted utility gate, padlocked. Vikram bent, picked it with a flick, and slipped through—silent as vapor.
Fifty meters in, flattening beside overflowing fuel drums, he paused.
> Heavy boots…
> Laughing in Punjabi…
> One guard heading inside for water...
All the sound filtered into him like sonar pings. His target lay ahead.
### The Hangars
Guided by memories ripped from ground engineers, Vikram passed warehouses and mule cart yards. Light-duty jeeps stood parked beside a motor pool. He skirted around spotlights, used cardboard trash piles for cover.
There—they stood: Hangar 1 and Hangar 2.
Hangar 1 had a gap through a slightly ajar service hatch. Vikram crawled through without noise.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aviation fuel, machine grease, and steel. Under the dim emergency bulbs sat twelve F-86 Sabres and twelve F-104 Starfighters—polished, predatory, silent.
He approached the first aircraft. It shone like a dormant beast.
> "System. Price check: F-86 Sabre."
> [Retail: 7,000 G.P | Sell Value: 700 G.P]
He grimaced.
> "Sell."
The fighter dissolved in a soft pulse of white-blue light and vanished like dust in space.
> [+700 G.P Earned]
One by one, he worked silently, hand to hull, calmly watching twenty-four fighters disappear into his growing coffers.
- F-86: 12 × 700 = 8,400 G.P
- F-104: 12 × 600 = 7,200 G.P
- Previous: 2,100 G.P
→ New Total: 17,700 G.P
Hangar 2 posed no challenge. Its rusted lock yielded in seconds.
Inside, newer models waited—six Chinese F-6s, quieter, their noses bruised with oil stains, and four Mirage jets—sleek, shark-like, half-covered.
Quick scan. Same touch. Blue shimmer. Gone.
- F-6: 6 × 200 = 1,200 G.P
- Mirage III/5: 4 × 400 = 1,600 G.P
> Final Total: 20,500 G.P
He paused, gaze cast across the now-empty hangars.
Thirty-four jets… gone into code and silence.
### Escape
Retracing steps took precision. Patrols had shifted. One jeep idled longer by the munitions shed. A guard near the fence stood smoking, half-asleep.
Vikram timed everything. Every breath, every bootstep synced with distant distractions. He slipped past dogs without drawing a bark. At the breach in the fence, he paused, looked once at the quiet base, and disappeared through the opening.
He didn't look back.
By pre-dawn grey, Vikram moved through Sargodha's vegetable lanes. Children chased roosters. Milkmen cycled. A bakery cart creaked out its first loaves.
No one noticed the man in a plain dusky shawl, strolling through the dew.
No one knew that just hours ago, he had crippled an air force before the world could hear a whisper.
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